Sentiment Kills
by Amillea Moravii
Summary: Sam and Dean are in the bunker when they hear a whisper of something - a middle-aged couple devoured in their living room by something no-one seems to have heard of. The witness, the couple's adopted daughter, is desperate for revenge, but the brothers are sure she knows more than she's telling, and they soon find themselves in over their heads. T for strong(ish) language and gore.
1. Prologue: The Killer in my Living Room

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. All characters, themes, items, and context taken from the show belong to their respective owners.**

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**Spoilers: This fic is set early on in Season 9. There shouldn't be _too_ much to give away, but there are references to be made later. I'm thinking 9x01 to 9x02 - so if you ignore this warning and read it anyway, don't complain XD But anyways, enjoy!**

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**A/N I: I've been getting a lot of people reading the first chapter and then not going on to the others. I don't know if it's because I'm a shitty writer or anything, but if you're like me and don't like reading from an OC's POV, fear not - from the second chapter (first chapter?) onwards it's third person from the brother's POV, only sometimes skipping back to my OC, so if you just want to get straight on with the story, skip to that - or just leave me a review saying you hate the story - both are good :P But if you're a bit like me, don't throw it away because it's a character you're not familiar with - the only reason this prologue is even here is because it sets the scene for the story - kind of like the first minute or two of an episode.**

**But enjoy, or skip ahead, or tell me I'm shit - whatever tickles your fancy. :D**

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**Prologue: The Killer in my Living Room**

The air around was thick with the scent of beer, sweat and sex, smoke shimmering as the heavy bass thumped through it. I took a deep breath, plastering a strained smile onto my face and subtly moving out of the arms of some random guy who thought it would be fun to hit on me – for the fourth time that night. With slow, careful movements I extracted myself from his clammy, alcoholic grip and excused myself with the pretense of going to get another beer, quieting him with the lie of returning.

I couldn't believe I was there. The entire party honestly wasn't my regular scene – I preferred to blend into the background and watch, smirking at the idiocy and immaturity of the girls throwing themselves at guys who were probably too drunk to even realize what was happening. I picked my way through the disgusting, swaying bodies as I tried to find an exit. A few minutes into my search presented me with a door, and I hurried to step outside into the cool night air.

The first few lungfuls of the crisp, clean air were a sweet relief on my tortured lungs. I took the liberty of standing out on the edge of the balcony, my hands curling around the rails and my long raven hair flicking out behind me in the light breeze. I shuffled side to side on my aching feet – four inch heels were practically torture, and my little black dress fell to my knees, ruffling in the wind. Smokey eye makeup completed my outfit – normally wearing all black allowed me to hide back in the shadows, but the laser lights inside brightened the entire house, preventing me from fading away.

I let out a sigh; this was the first house party I'd been to in months, and I was suddenly, vividly reminded as to why I avoided them in the first place. I'd normally be found at home, in front of my laptop, or doing... other activities. I tended to avoid people as my temper often got the best of me; the last four times my caretakers had let me out I'd gotten into fights, beating up other girls (and sometimes a guy or two) until – twice, so far – the police had intervened.

I heard a few dishes break inside and decided I'd had enough. I turned on the spot, trying to keep my balance in the shoes that were trying kill me, and ran straight into some dyed-blonde bitch who then managed to cover me in vodka.

"Whaaat da fuck, bits?" she seethed.

"Sorry!" I murmured, stepping back and holding my hands out in front of me in (what I hoped was) a non-threatening gesture, hoping to avoid a scene.

"Arh ooh try -_hic_- tah git on mah nerves, ooh whore?"

"Hey, hey, hey, back off sweetie," I shot back, my Australian accent sounding totally out of place in Chicago. "You know I didn't mean to do that, now back off."

"You think you can just get _away_ with that?" Honestly, she was so drunk I could only guess that was what she said. What actually came out of her mouth was something more along the lines of "_Ooh thi-_hic_- ooh kah ust giet _awaahh_ ith at_?" I decided to try and install a "Drunken Whore" to "English" translator in my brain.

"I don't want any trouble," I tried. Yeah, clichéd, but what was I gonna say?

_(Installing application, please wait.) _"Suure," she drawled.

"Ooh thi-hic- ou're suh gray-tuh, an 'ittle an-" _(Ding, application installed, please enjoy your translation!) "_-dark and pretty, but you're such a slut," she managed.

"I just wanna leave," I bit out. I swear, I was _this close_ to-

The bitch had the nerve to _snarl_ at me. "Oh, I'm sure," she hissed. "Gonna run away to mommy and daddy and cry yourself to sleep, are you?"

Aaaaand... I snapped. My black nails dug painfully into my palm, and my fist shot out and collided perfectly square with her nose. She howled, dropping her cup, clutching her now-bleeding nose with one hand and lashing out blindly with the other. With smooth skill (and luck that she was smashed enough that she might as well have been a poorly controlled marionette) I ducked back out of her reach, shot forwards and lashed my fist back out to connect with her solar plexus. Her skimpy clothing left little to the imagination, so I immediately spotted the deepening red mark as I pulled away.

She was going to wake up sore tomorrow.

I dodged around her clumsy movements, shooting my fist out a few more times until I heard the telling _crack_ of a rib or two breaking. By that time a whole crowd of people had gathered around us, and her shit-faced friends were trying to pull her out of the fight while her stoned boyfriend was trying to lunge at me and _his_ friends were holding him back. Soon enough uniformed men were breaking through the crowd, reaching out to hold everyone back and disperse everyone.

"Hello, Officer," I chirped brightly, a tight smile pulling at my face.

Whoever he was, he must have dealt with me before, because a frown crossed his face. "Alice Walker," he said. "Why am I not surprised?"

My smile fell and a blank look replaced it; and I'm one of those people whose blank face makes me look like a serial killer – which I suppose isn't far from the truth.

"What are you going to do now?" I asked him. He seemed vaguely familiar; reddish hair, brown eyes, skin pale as a sheet and dotted lightly with freckles.

Well, first I'm going to have to take you to the station, take your statement and-" he inhaled sharply, practically _tasting_ the alcohol that had spilled on me "-breathalyse you, then I'll probably have to take you home."

"Okay." Better to get this done and over with. I'd have to wipe their records when I got home.

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The next hour passed in a bit of a blur. The moon crept a little higher the sky, and soon enough I was in the back of a cruiser being taken home. I vaguely thanked someone (not God; if he even existed he was a total prick) that I'd gotten a lift to the party. I refused to take my own car to a party where some asshole was probably just going to trash it anyway.

My senses must have been getting dull, because we made it all the way to the front door before I realized that something was terribly, horribly, bloodily wrong.

Everything kicked in and my eyes flew wide as everything went into overdrive. Oh no.

I spun on my toes, turning to face the officers that had walked me to the door. I couldn't let them in, couldn't let them see, couldn't let them-

"Alice?" Officer White (as I'd learned was his name) seemed a little confused. I quickly pulled another strained smile onto my face and took a step back from him, my hand moving to the doorknob.

"Actually, sir, I don't really think it's necessary to come in," I rushed out. "I mean, it's late – what is it, two a.m.? – and my caretakers are probably asleep. I'm eighteen, I'm not underage, you really don't have to wake them up just to tell them I've been in another fight, they'll work it out anyway and it's really not that big of a deal. So, how about if you're really worried you come back around tomorrow – I mean later on today – and-"

"Alice, Alice, Alice," he chided, his eyes drifting shut and shaking his head. "You know they asked for us to contact them if this happened again-"

"I know, I know," I said, "but can you just come back in like six hours? Everyone'll be awake then and-"

But there was no stopping him. He reached around me, knocked my hand off the door handle and twisted it open-

And the smell hit.

Salty, metallic, _fresh_-

Blood.

Evidently, Officer White could smell it too because he drew his gun and pushed past me into the house. I mentally face-palmed – he had no idea what he was dealing with; it would have been safer if I'd gone first. Instead of telling him that, I stepped forwards, stalking into the house and down the hall keeping my body pressed firmly to the wall.

The hideous sound of tearing flesh and snapping bones would have made my stomach churn if I hadn't been used to it. Does it sound terrible, that I was used to it? I suppose it should have been, but it was close to a blessing in these situations, where a single slip could cost someone their life.

It was definitely an advantage here; Officer White had one hand clutching at his nose, trying to block out the feral stench, while I crept forwards steadily, every movement calculated. Upon reaching the end of the hallway, I pressed back against the wall firmly, closed my eyes while I took a deep breath, opened them again, and twisted my neck around, glancing around the corner.

What I saw would be burned into my brain for the rest of my life.

There, crouched in the middle of the living room was a huge, hunched shape. The walls and floors had been coated in blood, and a few splatters of gore dripped lazily down the wall. The brilliant scarlet was fading to black in the moonlight, and a piece of brain was resting lightly on the ivory – now dark with gore – lounge suite.

The sound of rending flesh was almost enough to make me sick, but I couldn't rip my eyes away from the huddled shape on the floor.

Oh no.

Oh God no.

This wasn't happening.

It wasn't real.

_It wasn't real_.

Time stopped for an infinite period – the creature stopped stuffing its face with the flesh of my caretakers, the trees stopped shuffling in the light breeze, Officer White stopped choking on the stench in the air, and I stopped breathing.

And then Officer White stepped out of the hall and into the light, and everything happened extraordinarily quickly.

White shouted. The thing turned. White pointed his gun. The thing ran. I reached out. White shot. He missed the thing. My arm burned.

And voices exploded around me.

Oh no.

_Oh God no_.

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**A/N II: Hello my dears! You've probably never heard of me, but let me introduce myself *takes off top hat and bows* Amillea Moravii, pleased to make your acquaintance.**

**Now now, before you turn away, understand that unlike some fics, this will not totally be focussed around my OC Alice (I hope). This chapter is all from her point of view because I just had to set the scene of the case - Sam and Dean will pop up in the next chapter. It's kind of gonna be like a hunt - you know, where they had out to kill something and things go wrong so they have to fix it all? Yeah. I kinda miss those episodes.**

**So. Um. Yeah. I love reviews. And feedback :3 And honestly, I don't really know where this is going or what's happening, so if you could give me some ideas it's be great :3**

**But anyways, thanks for reading and reviewing, and I love you all!**

**Virtual cookies if you managed to sit through my long and boring Author's Note! (There will be more crazy next time, I swear :P)**

**But read, review, comment - _please_! *Puppy dog eyes***


	2. Routine as Usual

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. All characters, themes, items, and context taken from the show belong to their respective owners.**

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**Chapter One: Routine as Usual**

Sam didn't like Tuesdays. Even before the whole deal with Mystery Spot and dealing with a hundred Tuesdays that never ended well, he'd always preferred a Thursday. Or a Friday. At school, he'd always had his worst subjects on a Tuesday and he despised walking onto the grounds on a Tuesday morning, whether he would ace his classes or not.

But, despite his history with his least favourite day of the week, one Tuesday he woke up to good news. Well, kind of good news.

"Up and at 'em, Sammy," Dean carolled through his bedroom door, knocking his fist on it a few times for good measure. "We've got a case."

Sam groaned; after staying up late researching with Kevin and desperately (albeit secretively) searching for a case that seemed difficult enough for two people but 'safe' enough that Dean would let him tag along he'd turned up nothing, even after looking well into the early hours of the morning. He briefly wondered how Dean had managed to track one down in the few hours he'd been asleep, then thought better of it and dropped his head back down to his slightly uncomfortable pillow.

"Come on, Sam! Don't make me come in there!"

"Yeah, 'm getting up!" he shot back, his voice muffled by the cotton in his mouth. "Give me a minute!"

"You've got forty-five seconds or I'm leaving without you!"

Damn.

Fifty-three seconds later Sam had rolled out of bed, grabbed a pair of jeans and his most comfortable flannel and stumbled wearily towards the showers, throwing the door open and turning on the hot water.

Two minutes and sixteen seconds after that he was walking, only slightly more awake towards the kitchen, rubbing a towel on his damp hair. He caught a glance of a clock and bit back a rather insulting comment; somehow Dean was standing next to the sink, sipping his coffee and smiling entirely too brightly.

"I thought you'd be excited, Sam," he noted. "You haven't left the Bunker in almost three weeks, and here I am with a case."

"Dean, I've had three hours of sleep," Sam said tiredly, "and here you are, undoubtedly about to drag me halfway across the country on a hunt that you probably won't want me to help on anyway."

Dean paused for a second. "Well, you _are_ still recovering from the trials-"

"That's the thing, Dean," Sam protested, pulling Bitchface #4. "I. Feel. Fine. Honestly. There's nothing wrong with me!"

"-but I think I could really use your help on this one," Dean continued, as if there hadn't been an interruption. "I've checked through Dad's journal and done some research, but I can't seem to find anything that matches."

"What do you mean, 'can't find anything that matches'? What the hell are we dealing with?"

"That's the thing – it doesn't really match with any lore we've dealt with before. Get this – middle-aged couple found devoured in their living room. Torn to shreds – if that. Blood everywhere, some pieces of organs scattered here and there. Cops can't even tell which piece belongs to which body."

"So, what?" Sam asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee and rummaging through the fridge, looking for something to eat. "Werewolf? Wendigo? Demon? A really violent ghost?"

Dean shook his head slowly. "The whole body was eaten, not just the heart."

"So, not a werewolf."

"And they were torn to pieces, not taken away, and I doubt a Wendigo would be hanging round in Chicago."

"Demon?"

"Possible, but apparently there was an eyewitness account or two. Someone interrupted the thing in the middle of its meal."

"So we going in as Feds?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Suit up, Sammy. The sooner we get there the sooner we can gank this thing and get back onto trying to reverse this angel crapfest."

With a nod and a flurry of motions they drained the rest of their drinks, grabbed their perpetually packed bags and went to leave when a barely-functioning Kevin stumbled towards them.

"Whaaa…?" he mumbled.

"We're going on a hunt," Sam explained. "Stay away from Crowley and keep working. Keep and ear out for the phones and only leave if you have to, okay? We should be back in a few days."

"Yeah, yeah," Kevin responded. "See you later."

While he was shuffling away, barely half awake Dean let out a soft sigh. "I don't think he understood any of that."

"He'll be okay," Sam said. "He knows how to look after himself."

Dean's jaw tightened a little. "Yeah. I s'pose so."

"Now, did you say we were going to Chicago?"

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The ride was extraordinarily tense. Every few minutes Dean's green eyes would flick towards Sam, scrutinizing his expressions, his posture, his reactions. It was almost constant for the first twenty minutes before Sam snapped.

"What?"

Dean did a double take at the frustration and hints of venom in his little brother's voice. "What?"

"Why the hell are you staring at me?"

"I'm not staring at you."

"Yes, Dean, you are. You look like you think I'm going to drop dead at any moment."

"I don't think you're going to drop dead."

"Then why stare?" Sam rebutted. Dean remained silent for a second, his eyes sweeping the road in the morning light. Sam sighed. "Look, Dean, I know I didn't come out of the Trials in the best shape-"

"_The best shape?_" Dean exploded. "Sammy, you nearly didn't come out of those trials _at all_. I've lost you too many times already – I can't lose you again. I won't make it through another time. I just-" Here he cut off. Sam would say he was overwhelmed by emotion if he knew he wouldn't get his ass kicked for it.

"Dean," he said gently, "I'm fine. Why can't you see that?"

"Because you're not!" Dean's hands clenched painfully on the wheel as small tremors shuddered up his arms and he fought the urge to slam on the brakes and freak out completely. "You're nowhere _near_ okay, Sam. You have no idea exactly how far from _okay_ you actually are, do you? You _died_, Sammy. Okay? And you haven't been totally right since you woke up, either. So don't you dare – don't you _dare_ tell me you're '_okay'_."

In all honesty, Sam as stunned for a few minutes.

"Look, Dean," he tried, "I know something bad happened. I know the Trials did something to me. I know everything fell apart when Metatron forced the angels from Heaven, and I know that you're worried, but you have to trust me. You have to trust me to take care of myself. I know my limits as well as you know yours, so cut me some slack here, okay?"

Dean, eyes still fixed out of the windshield, seemed to be trying very hard not to look at Sam. The silence was terrible; Dean didn't even have one of his stupid cassettes playing, and the only noise Sam would hear was the familiar, somewhat comforting purr of the Impala beneath him.

"I trust you, Sammy."

It was so quiet Sam couldn't even be sure he heard it, but he settled back into the passenger seat comfortably an allowed a small smile to grace his lips as he settled in for the long ride.

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The brothers strolled up to the house with practiced calm and faux FBI authority bleeding out of them.

"Afternoon, Officer," Dean called as he walked up the steps with Sam on his heels. "Agent Johnson," he stated, flipping his fake I.D. open and giving them a brief glance. "This is my partner, Agent Evans."

"Afternoon, Agents," the officer replied. "Officer Morgan," he introduced himself, reaching out to shake their hands. Dean simply stared at it until Morgan dropped it awkwardly by his side. The officer was short and stout, with a close-cropped head of thinning and greying dark hair and bulging, bloodshot eyes.

"So can you tell us what happened here?" Sam asked, his eyes peering in past the police tape that cordoned off the front door.

"Take a look for yourselves," Morgan said, gesturing them forwards.

The smell hit them pretty hard; dried blood was something that took a lot of time to learn to deal with, but the smell of human flesh that was just starting to rot was something the brothers couldn't really accustom themselves to.

"So exactly who did this?" Dean asked as he stepped into the living room, his face scrunching up in disgust.

"Well," Morgan said, "the girl that saw it isn't talking. She said something about something – poor girl's in shock, we think, 'specially since she got shot this morning."

"Wait," Sam said. "She got shot?"

Morgan nodded gravely. "Just a flesh wound, we think, but a bit of a deep one. See, the attacker was here when she came home. Poor girl got into a fight at some party downtown and Officer White brought her home. They went inside and found 'em like this. White said she reached her hands out to them or something, but he fired at the guy on the floor just as her arm got in the way."

"Huh," Sam said. "Well, if you don't mind I'm just gonna take a look around. I'm sure Agent Johnson has more questions for you…" He gave a tight smile and shot Dean a look.

His brother nodded minutely and took Morgan off down the hall somewhere, and Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out an EMF reader, which then refused to respond no matter where he pointed it. A quick, but thorough inspection of the room revealed no trace of sulphur, and no damage done to the rest of the house.

One thing, however, caught his eye.

A hair.

Now it could have been a pet hair, or a bristle from some brush, or anything, really, but the thing was long – about four inches. It was also the single thickest and coarsest hair Sam had ever seen. He crouched down, reaching to pick it up and a little disgusted when it came away caked in blood.

But hey, he'd found something.

Another quick sweep of the room told him that he hadn't missed anything, so he went off to find Dean and get out. Hopefully they could question a few people, get some information, hit the library and hole up in a motel somewhere where they could grab something to eat and figure out just what the hell this thing was and how they were going to kill it.

He met up with Dean on his way out of the house.

"Find anything?"

"Yeah," he replied. "This."

He held it out and Dean took if from him gingerly, grimacing at the blood soaked fibre.

"A hair?"

Sam shrugged. "No EMF, no sulphur, no damage – barely a sign of a struggle. This it all we've got."

"Yeah, well, you know what I got?"

"A name?"

Dean grinned at Sam from across the roof of the Impala as he opened the driver's side door. "A name and a hospital bed number. We have one Miss Alice Walker to interview, then I say we find a motel and do some research."

_Great minds think alike_, Sam mused to himself.

"Let's go."

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**A/N: There we have it. Chapter one. Or chapter two, I suppose. I think FanFic should put up an extra option for a prologue in the chapters list.  
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**Oh well. Look at that1 Two chapters in a week! I'm starting to get ahead of myself :P  
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**Well, I hopes you enjoyed the chapter. :) I know I said I'd do crazy this Author's Note, but it's like half past one in the morning and I have to wake up in like for hours to see the 50th Anniversary of Doctor Who.**

**An then I'm going to see it again. In cinemas. In 3D.**

**And then I'm gonna see it again. At home. Again.**

**Wow, big day for Whovian stuff :)**

**Anywyas, enjoy chappie and stuff. Read, review, favourite, follow, all that stuff.**

**Now, my dears, I must bid you goodnight :) Or good morning. Or whatever :)  
**


	3. Secrets

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. All characters, themes, items, and context taken from the show belong to their respective owners.**

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**Chapter Two: Secrets**

Dean hated the smell of hospitals. They were far too... clean for his taste. Every time he stepped inside of one he felt dirty, bloody, broken. Even with a clean, pressed cheap suit he couldn't help but shake the feeling that he wasn't meant to be there, that just by being there he was contaminating the pristine white that covered the walls.

He suppressed a shiver as he strolled confidently through the corridors, keeping an eye out for room 251 in the casualty ward. Apparently Alice Walker wasn't new to the hospital, often coming in to be patched up. Some of the doctors that tended to her regularly knew her, describing her as a "withdrawn girl, poor thing. Been through too much to only be eighteen. A bit troubled, but what can you expect? Quiet, with a bit of a temper, but always seems calm, no matter how shaken everyone else seems to be. No friends to speak of, just her adoptive parents – terrible tragedy, that..." and after that Dean just sort of... drifted off.

Sam would listen out for anything they needed to know, anyway.

"So, Alice," Sam started, before pausing for a moment. "Huh. That's strange."

"Strange?" Dean perked up. "What's strange?"

"She hasn't just come in for regular things in the past, like things you'd expect for a regular kid. Some of this stuff seems pretty gruesome. Check this out – gashes that run up and down her back, doctors think it was a knife. Shattered humerus, ulna and radius, compound fractures to her fibula and tibia-"

"English, please?"

Sam glared at his older brother for a minute and sighed. "Crushed right arm, both upper and lower, and badly broken left leg. Countless accounts of fractured ribs, bruises everywhere you can think of, and this – _bite marks_, from what medics ruled as a rabid animal, but the teeth marks were far too sharp. They couldn't figure it out." Sam flipped a page. "And the list just goes on..."

Dean nodded slowly, processing the onslaught of information. "So, what, abusive parents? Wouldn't be the first case."

"Could be, but this seems awfully savage for just a regular case of abusive foster parents, and everyone was completely adamant that the Nelsons were good people."

"Yeah, well," Dean said quietly, his mind flashing back a number of years, "not a lot of people show that sort of side to anyone other than the one's they're beating up."

If Dean hadn't been concentrating, he would have missed the stricken look that flashed across Sam's face so quickly the cameras might have missed it. "Dean, I-"

"Forget it, Sam," he snapped. "Let's just go ask this girl some questions and figure this case out, okay?"

They strolled through the corridors for a few more minutes, counting down the doors until they found the right room. Dean stood back and motioned Sam forwards, who strode into the room with practised ease.

The girl on the bed's head had snapped to the door as they walked in. She looked on edge – calling her tense would have been the understatement of the century, which would have included the brothers calling their role starting the Apocalypse a 'mistake'. As Dean looked over her, he noticed her wide eyes, rimmed in smudged eyeliner, her bandaged arm and her posture. Her face was bloodless under the warm makeup she'd applied, obviously too pale to be her natural colour. She seemed to be a deer in the headlights, trapped with nowhere to run. Her muscles were strung so tight she was shaking slightly, and her eyes skipped around in movements too quick to follow – though if Dean had to guess, he would have put his money on her trying to come up with an escape plan.

"Miss Walker?" Sam asked. "I'm Agent Evans, FBI. This here's my partner, Agent Johnson."

She didn't speak.

"Uh, we're here to ask you a few questions about this morning."

Still with the silence.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his place. Dean continued scrutinizing Alice on the bed, and she stared between them, unsure who the bigger threat was. When her gaze focused, she stopped shaking, and there was a hard glint in her eye that Dean hadn't seen in a long while, not since Sam had lost his soul. When those deep brown eyes settled on him, he fought the overwhelming desire to step back.

He cleared his throat, flashed his badge. "Do you mind if we sit down?"

She glared for a few more moments, and Dean could have sworn that she was assessing the threat they posed. When Dean was just about to leave the room, she narrowed her eyes and nodded abruptly.

A smile broke out over Sam's face. "Thanks," he murmured, pulling up a chair and sitting down a few feet away from the bed. Dean, after faltering a bit, did the same.

"We're sorry for your loss," Sam started off with. "It seems your adopted parents were very good people."

Dean knew it was a ploy. By assessing her reactions, the brothers could take a guess at discovering what her life was like. They were both a bit surprised when she shrugged and nodded, still not uttering a word.

"Right," Sam muttered to himself. "Okay, well, if you weren't close to them, that's understandable, maybe they weren't your favourite people, maybe-"

"You said you had questions about this morning," she spat out. Her voice was a little deep, harsh, like she'd been asleep and just rolled out of bed and into a nightmare. Dean also didn't fail to notice her strong Australian accent, twisting her words a little. "Ask them and leave, if you wouldn't mind. I have to get out of here as soon as I can. I'm busy."

"Busy?" Sam asked. "Your foster parents are dead!"

"Honestly? I'm not all that surprised."

"And why is that, exactly?" Dean interjected. Her eyes fixed on him again, her eyes piercing and strangely blank, like she could see right through him and didn't like what she found there.

And she clammed up again. Her lips pressed together tightly and her muscles went on lockdown, hands fisting in the bed sheets, body tensing past the point of shaking until she became perfectly still.

"What exactly did you see this morning, when you arrived home?" Sam asked, falling back to the reason they were there.

Dean could see the muscles in her jaw unclench as she opened her mouth to answer. "I don't know. It was dark, I was tired. I might have gotten slightly high off second-hand smoke, because I'm pretty sure some of those idiots were lighting up more than just cigarettes. There was a figure on the floor, eating my caretakers."

Dean didn't fail to notice the use of 'caretakers' instead of 'foster parents', either.

"Can you give me a description?"

"Tall. Pale. Kind of hairy. I don't know, it was dark! I've said it already!"

Sam took a moment to breathe. Dean didn't move his line of vision from Alice's face.

"Okay, if you think of anything else, no matter how small, can you give us a call?" he asked politely, standing up and handing her a fake card that called one of their other, other,_ other_ cells.

Alice, gaze still hard and empty as ever, raised her hand as if to take the piece of paper from Dean, but in the blink of an eye, her hand shot forwards and she grasped his wrist roughly, fingers clamping down around his pulse and jerked him forwards, pulling him down until she could whisper in his ear, "You have _no_ idea what you're trying to get yourself into. Sit back and let someone _experienced_ handle it, okay?"

Dean lurched back, green eyes shooing wide at the pure malice in her voice. The hardness had taken over her eyes, shutting out every other emotion, thought or idea. Her grip tightened painfully for a second before she let go, and the fire in her eyes faded as she fell back limply against the pillows.

"Go."

Dean shot a slightly panicked and very confused glance to Sam, eyes wide, and Sam's responding expression was curious and puzzled.

As he walked away from Alice's room, Dean couldn't help but think that the hardness in her eyes was covering up the deadness inside.

* * *

"So what did she say?"

"Huh?"

Sam and Dean were sitting in their cheap motel room, laptop open, books and papers scattered everywhere, half-empty beer bottles long forgotten and the Chinese they had ordered had gone cold.

"Alice. What did she tell you just before we left? You seemed pretty freaked."

Dean shrugged. "I dunno man. Nothing really exciting – but she told me something about leaving it to someone experienced."

Sam gave a huff of a laugh. "Well, she didn't know who she was talking to, did she?"

Again, Dean shrugged. He let out a breath and folded his arms on the table. "Did you even _see_ her, Sam? She's seen something – something _big_. Something _bad_. She's eighteen, and I could swear she seems almost as old as us. Maybe she knew what she was talking about – maybe she knows more than she's telling."

"But she didn't care about the murder of her foster parents at all – so why is she so worked up about it. What does she want? Revenge?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean replied. "I just... Don't know."

There was a pause. "Okay then," Sam said slowly. "You got any ideas on what the hell this thing is?"

"Nada."

An afternoon of interviews, inspections and research turned up nothing. The description they got from the police officer – White, his name was – was the same thing they'd gotten from Alice. Tall, pale, hairy.

Didn't really give them a lot to go on. They tried searching the internet and turned up a mass of gobbledygook and useless facts.

Sam eventually ended up running a hand through his hair. "I can't find anything. I'll try looking at it again in the morning" – he glanced at the clock, backtracked – "in a few hours after some sleep."

Half an hour later Sam had his long body curled up in bed, and Dean was still sitting at the table, millions of thoughts running through his head.

Why was Alice so secretive? She obviously knew more than she was telling.

How did she get all of those injuries? She didn't seem totally off put by her foster parents deaths – did she orchestrate it? Was it _her_ that had her foster parents killed? Were they even abusive? Maybe Alice just had a dark side – hell, Dean would know that better than anyone. Everyone had something they were ashamed of...

Who the hell was this teenager, with the piercing, dead eyes, the grip of iron?

And how exactly was she wrapped up in all of this?

* * *

**A/N: Well, hello there! Official chapter 2! Yay!**

**Honestly, I'm a little disappointed in the lack of response for this story. I can't do much about it, but I honestly want to know what you guys think - even if you hate it, drop me a review telling me it's shit :P It's okay, I can take it, I swear! And TALK TO ME - tell me what's good, what's bad, what you think should be fixed, what you think should be expanded on - anything! *Begs* COME ON PEOPLE!**

**I LOVE YOU, SO LOVE ME BACK :P**

**Anyyyywayyyys - Thanks for reading, I think I know where I'm going now, and I hope you enjoy it! It didn't turn out quite the was I was hoping, but meh... :P**


	4. Breakfast at Tiffany's

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. All characters, themes, items, and context taken from the show belong to their respective owners.**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Breakfast at Tiffany's**

A long, restless night later, Dean rolled out of bed and stumbled blearily to the kitchenette of their motel room, reaching for a glass of water. His eyes burned, his neck was stiff, his shoulders and back were aching, and his legs felt a little weak. With blurred vision, he managed to see that Sam had already woken, showered and left, and the note of the kitchen table confirmed that he had gone to get breakfast.

With a groan, Dean stumbled towards the cramped bathroom, practically falling into the shower and twisting the knobs until steam billowed around him. His hand snuck out to test the water, and when he pulled it back quickly to avoid being scalded, he nodded to himself and stepped in.

With the hot water washing away a terrible night, Dean pondered what they knew.

Tall hairy thing was killing people. Two witnesses, both who claim they don't know what it was and couldn't give an accurate description. Possibility of one witness lying. Lying witness was injured and claimed they had to wait for 'professionals', whatever that meant. A long, coarse hair. Neither of them had seen anything quite like it before.

_Maybe_ _I should call Garth_, Dean thought. _He might know something, or find something._

Until then, Dean would attempt to enjoy the crappy little shower he was stuck with and fantasize about the high-pressured jets back at the Bunker. When he could fantasize no more, he stepped out onto the cold floor and reached for his towel.

By the time he meandered back into the kitchenette, clothed in old jeans and a flannel, he'd expected Sam to have returned, but the room was strangely empty. With a shrug, Dean plopped back down in front of the laptop, pulling up some pages from his history to follow up on some leads.

All of which, he discovered in the next half hour, turned into dead ends.

With a sigh he grabbed his phone from the bedside table, dialled Garth's number and began to pace.

"Hey Dean, what's up?" chirped Garth, entirely too awake.

"Hey, Garth. Look, man, I need some info…"

There was a sigh at the other end of the line. "Not even a 'How are you?' or a 'What's been happening?' You got no manners, Dean."

"Yeah, man. Sorry. It's been hectic – but about that info…"

"Okay, okay. What do you need?"

Dean relayed all of his information and was met with silence. "Garth? You there, man?"

Garth took a moment to respond. "Yeah. See, the funny thing is, I don't think this is unheard of. Well, the eating people – yes, but the monster… Not quite, man."

Dean started. "Whaddya mean you don't think it's unheard of? What the hell are we dealing with, and how do we gank it?"

"Well, Dean," Garth started reluctantly, "you're not gonna like what I have to say."

"Spit it out, Garth."

There was a pause, then-

"Everything you're saying matches up with the legends of Bigfoot."

Queue Dean's silence. Then-

"_What_?" Dean exploded. "Garth, this isn't time for jokes. People are dying, here! You can't tell me it was _Bigfoot_, every hunter worth his salt knows that Bigfoot is a damn legend!"

"I know-"

"Oh, you _know_? Then what the hell are you doing giving me crap information that doesn't help me at all? Dammit Garth-"

"Dean, shut up for a second!"

After much internal struggling, Dean forced his mouth closed, his jaw tight. He took a deep breath, looked outside to check if Sammy was back, then sat down on his bed. "Okay. Shoot."

"Well, Dean, all legends start somewhere, right? Well everything you've described – the huge figure, the fur, the shape – it all matches up. We all know Bigfoot is fake, right? But there's been reported 'sightings' of Bigfoot going back decades – sometimes even further. All we can assume at the moment is that this thing you're hunting is the thing that started the rumours in the first place. It's probably nothing like what the legends actually say – maybe some kind of skinwalker, or a tupla, maybe a shapeshifter – hell, this thing could be anything – but until you figure out exactly what it is, and _why_ it's imitating Bigfoot, you've gotta stay away from it."

"So this could be just some regular job?"

"Could be, but just be careful, okay? I honestly have no idea what this thing is - there isn't enough information about it."

"Okay Garth. Just keep looking for me, okay? If anything turns up-"

"You'll be the first one I call," Garth said with a sigh. "I know, Dean. Now go and do some more work, or whatever it is you two are actually doing."

"Sure, sure." With that, Dean hung up and threw his phone on the bed. He pressed the heels of his palms over his eyes and groaned. The only coherent thought that ran through his head was _What the hell_?

* * *

Sam was standing in line at a small diner – _Tiffany's_, he thought, snorting mentally at the name – just down from the motel ordering breakfast, hip leaning against the counter as he waited for his meal. He'd expected fast service from a cheap place, but they certainly were taking their sweet time piecing together two breakfast bagels. He sighed, dug his phone out of his pocket to call Dean – surely he'd be awake by now? – when something caught his eye.

He reached over the counter top, long arms easily stretching the distance and plucked a newspaper out of the stand.

The headline, _Orphaned Again – Brutal Murder of the Nelsons Leaves Teen Without her Sixth Adopted Family_, jumped out of the page at him like a fluorescent sign, blinking and flashing at him, calling _read me!_

He glanced around, noticing about four other people in the diner with the same paper.

"Excuse me," he called, "Can I get a copy of this?"

The little blonde teen at the counter giggled, blushed and told him, "Sorry, we don't sell them here. There's a news stand down the street if you want to buy one, though."

"Oh. Okay."

And the most unexpected thing happened.

From somewhere down around his left shoulder came a voice. "Are you really _that_ interested in my life, A_gent Evans_?" The voice simply _dripped_ with sarcasm, and Sam couldn't tell if it was filled with venom or sickly sweet.

Sam jumped; his head whipped around and he found himself staring down at Alice Walker. She couldn't have been more than five foot nine or ten and he absolutely towered over her, but her presence was undeniable. She stood in black cargo pants and combat boots, a plain v-neck navy t-shirt and her hair loose around her shoulders. He was a little surprised to find that despite the cool morning weather, she wasn't wearing a jacket, and found himself worrying about her a little. She stared up at him with dark brown eyes that were curiously blank… kind of like he'd noticed Dean's had become. Dull. Lifeless. Like there wasn't anything left inside anymore.

"Miss Walker," he said stiffly. She was standing far too close, her arm bandaged up but hanging freely at her side, her shoulders thrown back, spine straight, eyes staring him down. "I didn't realize you were out of hospital."

"I was discharged," she responded. Her voice wasn't the monotonous drone that he had expected; still a little deep like he remembered, but not quite as harsh. Almost like she'd accepted the nightmare as reality overnight.

Considering this wasn't nearly the first time it had happened, Sam supposed she was accustomed to it.

"I left the hospital this morning. I was in the neighbourhood looking for a new home and stopped in for breakfast. What are you doing here?"

She broke away to order, and Sam scrambled to recollect his thoughts. "I'm actually here ordering breakfast for my partner and I," he replied.

"Oh. Where is he? Still in bed? He seemed the type."

"Excuse me?" Sam asked incredulously.

With the straightest face Sam had ever seen, Alice said, "You know. The type to drown himself in a bottle and hide himself away because he's seen too much to be able to deal with it all."

"And how do you know about that?" Sam asked, prying for any information she would give him.

"Well, you've seen all about my caretakers. The Nelsons were kind or reluctant to accept me anyway with my record. I think everyone's just glad that I'm old enough to live by myself now."

"How did you deal with it all?"

"All of what? The death?" She turned away from him, taking her bagel from the counter. Sam was kind of relieved to have his own handed to him, but he didn't want to leave. He wanted to know more – she was finally talking, and he wanted her to tell him something that could potentially help them on their hunt.

He nodded. "Yes. The death. Shall we sit?" he asked, gesturing to a table.

As they slid into the booth, she said, "I suppose it doesn't get any easier. You just learn to deal with it. And like I said before, bottles and avoidance helped."

"Is that how you're dealing right now? Are you drunk?" She didn't look drunk, and he couldn't smell it on her, but he had to ask.

"No." And she shut down again.

_Damn_, Sam thought. They sat in silence and ate for a minute, Alice letting her black hair fall in her face, trying to shield her from view. Sam took the moment to study her. She was still pale, but with all of the dark make-up removed it didn't seem as bad. Despite the gunshot to her arm, she was moving it perfectly fine, and though her eyes were still dead she seemed to be a little more open than she had the afternoon before.

"What do you do?" Sam asked her.

"I beg your pardon?" she responded, her Australian twang twisting her words and giving her a vague charm.

"What do you do regularly? School? Work? Looking for something to do?"

"I'm between jobs at the moment. Haven't been to school in a few months now." She stared at the remnants of her bagel as she spoke.

"That's a pity. Education is important."

"Education won't help me. I'm trying to stay alive at the moment, and an orphan working and going to school… it's not easy."

The lapsed back into silence, and Alice finished her breakfast, drained what was left of her Iced Tea and stood abruptly.

"Well, it was nice seeing you again, I suppose," she said, even though she didn't seem excited about it. Rather she was rattling off what was considered socially polite so she could leave.

"Wait!" Sam called as she turned to leave. "If you're house hunting, how will my br- my partner and I find you if we have more questions?"

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she held her hand out. "Give me your phone," she ordered.

Sam blanched, but handed it over to try and avoid a confrontation. Within about fifteen seconds she'd programmed her number into his contacts and threw his phone back at him.

"I suppose I'll see you around then. Let me know if I can help with the _investigation_ at all."

Sam nodded, and she turned on her heel, combat boots clacking on the vinyl as she exited the diner.

Before she walked through the door though, he thought he heard a whisper of, "Be careful, Sam."

* * *

**A/N: Yay! Chapter. I kind of wasn't going to write this, but I've so far spent the ENTIRE day on Tumblr and I figured I should probably do something slightly productive, even if I die of heat exhaustion.**

**I want to move to Antarctica.**

**Buy anyway, have a chapter, read, review, follow, favourite, whatever. Just lemme know if you like it, kay? ;) Oh, yeah, and I moved the rating down from an M to a T, because after reading more and more fics, I just kind of figured that what I had wasn't _too _bad. But if you guys reckon I should change it back again, lemme know. :)**

**Bye bye, lovelies!**


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